


The Wilfulness of Water

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [11]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Growing Old Together, Marriage, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Parenthood, Pirate King Monkey D. Luffy, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, implied Dracule Mihawk/Boa Hancock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-28 23:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: Navigating the many straits of parenthood isn't always easy, especially when your kids become old enough to chart their own course. And it's never smooth sailing when it comes to matters of the heart.“Not to be dramatic,” Shanks announced, with a sigh that contradicted the whole statement, even before he’d added, “but this is probably what kills me.”





	The Wilfulness of Water

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked me how Shanks and Makino would react to their kids getting suitors, and then what was originally meant to be a short prompt fill turned into this, but then I love writing them married with kids. And in Shanks' case, cheerfully suffering.
> 
> Follows [Sea Songs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8491117).

“Not to be dramatic,” Shanks announced, with a sigh that contradicted the whole statement, even before he’d added, “but this is probably what kills me.”

“You’re reading a bit too much into this,” Makino said, observing the same sight — their youngest, slender arms tucked around an empty serving tray, her laughter too soft to make out from a distance but the sound was still visible on her face; in the slight wrinkling of her nose, and the smile that showed her dimples.

The object of her amusement seemed pleased to have prompted the reaction, wearing a smile across his whole face. The son of the local blacksmith, he had pretty green eyes and a near-permanent grin. Makino had seen him around, usually not far from their daughter.

As though in answer to the thought, “This is the fourth time he’s stopped by this week,” Shanks said, affronted. “He’s not even old enough to drink.”

“This coming from _you_ ,” Makino said, the arch of a single brow spelling amusement — and familiarity. “And I don’t think you should be voicing your opinion on relentless suitors, either. How many times did you come back to Fuschia again?”

“Entirely beside the point,” Shanks countered, gesturing to their daughter. “And this is so not the same. She’s _fifteen_.”

“Yes, but she’s not a cloistered nun. She’s allowed to have friends.”

“Friends,” Shanks muttered. “Nothing friendly about that smile. Look at him.”

“He looks smitten,” Makino said, eyes twinkling. “But if it makes you feel better, I don’t think she’s picked up on why he keeps coming around.”

She got an unimpressed stare for that. “First of all, she gets that from you," Shanks told her. "And _no_ , that doesn’t make me feel better. Just look where you ended up.”

He made a wide, sweeping gesture, indicating the five-month pregnant stomach protruding under her apron. A wholly unexpected addition to a family they’d long since thought had stopped growing. With three beautiful children, nearly all of them grown, it had caught them both off guard. And even if she’d told him once that she'd wanted four, they hadn’t planned for this. Not at their age, with Shanks almost sixty, and especially with their history; the ones they'd lost, and that they both still remembered.

But her pregnancy was still a cheerful fact, the generous swell of her belly harder to ignore than it was to even believe, and they’d each suffered their share of cheek for it, from their friends and crew, and in no small part from their children, even as the news had been fiercely welcomed. However unexpected they'd all been, none of their children had ever been unwanted.

Another raised brow, and the duck of her head sought his eyes where they’d fixed on her stomach. “Again,” Makino repeated, gentler this time, although with no less amusement. “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. They’re just talking.”

“Hm, yes, and that’s what we were doing before _this_ happened,” Shanks countered, with another gesture at her stomach, before pointing across the room to their daughter. “And that.” Then, to their son sitting by the bar, absorbed in his reading. “That one...not so much talking as hungover skinny dipping on the beach, but you get my point.”

Makino tasted the hum where it sat on her tongue, moving a little closer to where he was leaning against the bar. “I don’t remember there being a lot of _talking_ on the other occasions,” she murmured, mouth pursing with a smile. “A lot of whiskey, though.”

Shanks grinned. “You do get frisky when you drink.”

Laughing, she slapped his ass with her serving tray. “Speak for yourself. You’re handsy enough for us both, and you only have one.”

“You know I can hear you,” Ace spoke up, without lifting his eyes from the page in his book.

“Fully aware of the fact,” Shanks shot back, his grin refusing to budge. "But then you were the one who said 'dad, I'm too old for you to embarrass' when you _know_ I would take that as a challenge. You only have yourself to thank, little fish. Oh, my bad— _big_ fish. Since you're all grown up now." Then to Makino, "I have to admit, I thought he'd be blushing for a few more years yet. He's _your_ son. But I guess I'll just have to try harder." He grinned at Ace. "I'm an insufferable adversary. Ben's hair can vouch for that."

Their eldest flicked his eyes up, above the glasses perched on his nose. And the resemblance he bore to his father really was uncanny, Makino thought. She had to do a double-take sometimes, catching him sitting at the bar and for a fleeting moment thinking she was imagining things; old memories from a different bar, on a different island.

Of course, Ace at least had the sense to button his shirt all the way up.

He looked to Makino, expression quietly imploring. "What are the odds he'll ever let this go?"

She smiled, but it was Shanks who said, "Hold on." He was frowning now, watching their son. "Why do you look worried?"

Ace shrugged, and Makino had to press her lips together to keep her smile from letting his secret slip. He was her son, alright; he couldn't lie to save his life. "No reason," Ace said mildly.

"Oh yeah?" Shanks asked. "Why don't I believe you?"

Ace spluttered. "Why would I be worried?"

"You tell me—you're the one who looks weirdly guilty for some reason. You've said yourself that my belligerent attempts at embarrassing you don't faze you anymore. So why now, suddenly?"

Ace didn't answer, and was doing his best to avoid looking directly at them, but Makino didn't need him to tell her to know what the reason was — the thing that gave his eyes that telling gleam, and the charmingly smitten smile that was every bit his father's legacy. The reason he wasn't thrilled to have to suffer the tender mercies of his parents' relentless teasing, potentially in the presence of certain company. She was surprised Shanks hadn't connected the dots yet.

Shanks was still frowning, but then, his brows jumping, the beginnings of realisation dawning on his face, along with a familiar grin, "Wait a minute," he said. "Do you have a—"

Their youngest laughed then, the sound so loud it soared above the din of their bar, and Shanks' burgeoning delight soured in an instant, along with the grin. He shot a look across the room, to where Yasopp raised his brows in question, before making a suggestive gesture, like cocking an imaginary rifle to take a shot.

Shanks made to give him a thumbs up, when Makino slapped his hand away with a laugh. “ _Behave_.”

His pout was primly ignored, as she bumped her hip against his. Stealing a glance at their son, she slipped him a wink. He looked relieved to be off the hook. “You can always go over there and loom a bit," Makino suggested, spinning the serving tray between her hands, before resting it over the curve of her belly.

Needing no more incentive, Shanks made to do just that, and she grabbed his arm. “ _No_ haki,” she warned, and ignored his crestfallen look, too.

“Not even a little bit?”

Another glance across the room revealed that they weren’t the only ones observing the spectacle; the other people seated around their bar were watching with furrowed brows, a room full of uncles and retired pirates who’d apparently all forgone their own conversations in favour of observing the boy chatting up their youngest, neither of which seemed to have noticed the attention.

That tinkling laugh rose again, louder than before, and even Makino’s brows furrowed a bit this time.

Meeting Shanks’ look, his brows raised, as though to say _you were saying?_ , she pursed her mouth, and when she made to move past him, slipped the words under her breath.

“Maybe just a little bit.”

 

—

 

“He seems very sweet,” Makino told their youngest later, as she walked up to place a tray of dirty glasses on the bar, meticulously collected after her momentary distraction earlier.

Aya blinked, her smile small and bemused. “He is.”

“He likes you.”

She was surprised to find her smile curving sweetly, but there was no guile there, as she said, “Oh, I know. I told him I didn’t feel the same.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she plucked at one of the embroidered strawberries, before giving a shrug of her shoulders. “I’m not really ready for that, anyway. He was nice about it, though.”

Caught off guard by the admission—the maturity and the still-guileless ease with which she'd offered it—Makino just watched her, before reaching to pull her close, startling an  _oof!_ from her as she kissed the top of her head, and told her, fiercely and half-laughing, “I am _so_ proud of you."

Aya's brows creased with confusion, but she didn’t ask. Instead, glancing across the room to where Shanks was talking animatedly with Yasopp, “Do you want me to put dad out of his misery?” she asked. “He’s been stalking around the bar all afternoon.”

Lifting her gaze and finding his brows quirking in question, Makino hid her smile against the crown of her head. For all his open lamentations about it, she knew part of him needed it — the exaggerated demonstrations of protectiveness, which had more bark than bite, and the persistent attempts at stoking a blush of embarrassment. Their children were growing up a bit too fast.

And so, “No,” she said, running her fingers through their youngest's hair, her smile old and fond.

“I think we can let him be miserable a little longer.”

 

—

 

Of course, it wasn’t just their youngest who received her share of attention.

He didn’t wake as the first pebble hit the window, the soft _click_ of the stone on the glass almost too quiet to catch, but he stirred at the touch of Makino’s hand to his chest, before it curled under his chin.

“What?” Shanks rumbled, taking a moment to resurface. He’d always been a heavy sleeper, but the gentle insistence in the press of her hand invoked one too many similar awakenings, and within a second he was alert and sitting up, drawing out of her half-embrace, his gaze seeking her stomach, heavy with their child. “Is it the b—”

“ _Shh_ ,” Makino whispered, and shook her head, the small smile dancing along her mouth dispelling the worry that had surged up his chest to steal his breath; the one that had burrowed deep roots in him, ever since that night they'd lost their first. But she was calm now, and her eyes dark and smiling where they swallowed up the shadows of their bedroom. “Do you hear that?”

Frowning, he fell quiet, but then he heard it—a pebble hitting their window, followed by another in rapid succession.

“Oh,” Shanks laughed, catching her smile widening through the dark. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

By the time a fourth attempt sounded, this time on the window of a room further down from theirs, he was moving.

“Shanks,” Makino laughed, reaching for him as he pulled away to root through the dark for his pants, but when her gentle warning was ignored, she just sighed. “At least leave your sword.”

He tossed her a feral grin where she sat in the middle of their bed, her hair a dark tumult around her shoulders and sleep still weighing her eyes, heavy and hooded under the delicate fan of her lashes. He stuck his tongue out, and she snorted, rubbing her hand over her stomach.

Pulling on his shirt, he didn’t bother with his sandals as he made his way down the stairs, steps soundless as he skirted creaking planks and doorsteps he could map in his sleep, until he was striding across the porch and into the humid night.

It took him rounding the corner of the house to find who he was looking for, and okay, _maybe_ he was a little too old to be deriving so much pleasure from the way the kid jumped upon catching sight of him, but then it had been years since anyone had turned up to challenge him. Shanks had to admit he missed it a little.

He was standing at the bottom of the drainpipe when she shimmied down, the boy beside him looking like he was trying his best to sink into the ground.

“Hey,” Shanks chirped, as Emmy halted, arrested by the sight. “Going somewhere?”

Cheeks flushing, she hissed at the boy, who shrunk back from her voice, “I told you to be discreet!”

“I was trying to be!”

“Clearly, not very hard," Shanks said. "And pebbles on the window? Really? That method was outdated when I was your age. And at least aim for the right window, that’s like the basics of the basics.” He looked at his daughter, as though to say _can you believe this kid?_ “It’s not just uncreative, it’s poorly executed. You sure this is who you want to spend your time with?”

“I’m quickly regretting it,” she muttered under her breath, cheeks still aflame. She hadn’t bothered to lace up her boots, and was wearing one of her brother’s sweaters over her pyjamas, the pant legs rolled up to her knees. She’d sloppily tied her braid back with one of Makino’s kerchiefs, some strands coming loose around her face. She looked for all the world like she was up to no good.

“At least _you_ did a decent job sneaking down the drainpipe,” Shanks told her. “Really quiet. Good form.”

Her embarrassment fled, chased by a grin. “Yeah? I’ve been practicing. Bet I could do it with one arm, too.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Um,” the boy said, looking between them. “Can I go home now?”

Shanks looked him up and down, eyes lingering a moment longer on the poorly concealed flask stuffed into his back pocket. Noticing the direction of his gaze, Emmy had the sense to look ashamed.

Shanks held his hand out, and said brightly, “Fun flask, please.”

It was handed over with great reluctance, and he flicked the top off to take a sniff, before pulling back with a grimace. “ _Cheap_ whiskey?” He looked to Emmy, aghast. “I’m so disappointed, I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Dad,” she pleaded, her earlier mortification back with a vengeance, and she might be her mother’s spitting image, but that exaggerated suffering was all Shanks.

Flask in hand, he looked to the boy, now openly staring at the scar on his chest, twenty years healed but still a chilling sight, even without knowing the story. He looked, Shanks was pleased to see, ready to piss himself.

“Make a better effort next time, and I might look the other way,” Shanks told him, before flicking his eyes sharply in a gesture to pick up his feet.

Not needing to be told twice, the boy scrambled to get away, bolting down the path from the house without a backwards glance. Shanks watched him run, waving the flask.

When he looked back at Emmy, it was to find her expression warily hopeful. “Would you really look the other way?”

“Oh, my girl,” he laughed, as he ushered her into the house. “Not a _chance_.”

When they entered the upstairs corridor, it was to find Makino out of bed, dressing robe loosely wrapped around the six-month swell of her stomach where she leaned against the doorframe.

“Pebbles on the window?” she asked their daughter, her voice still coloured with sleep but her amusement palpable. “It’s not very creative.”

Shanks beamed, and Emmy rubbed at her eyes. “How long will you let me suffer for this? Give me an estimation.”

“You mean for trying to sneak out in the middle of the night, or for trying to sneak out with a guy who can’t even pull off a minor heist?” Shanks asked.

“He could have used a diversion,” Makino mused, as he came to stand beside her in the doorway. “Drawn our attention elsewhere.”

“Hm,” Shanks agreed. “Could even have taken a more careful approach, waiting for her at the bottom of the path, maybe. Discretion _is_ the better part of valour, although we could give him points for going on the offensive. Points deducted for poor planning, though—he should have at least scoped out the house beforehand, to make sure he had the right window.” He shook his head. “Rookie mistake.”

Emmy was wearing an expression entirely devoid of the amusement they were sharing. “Are you done?”

Shanks looked down at Makino. “I don’t know—are we?”

She hummed. “I was thinking we might give him points for doing it the old-fashioned way. It’s very romantic.” Her eyes gleamed in the dark. “ _You_ never threw pebbles at my window.”

“From what you’ve told me of your mother, if she’d been alive, I don’t think I would have risked it,” Shanks said, not a beat missed. He lifted the flask, and gave it a shake, sloshing the contents. “I’ll say this, though. If we were teenagers sneaking off to get wasted, I would have brought better booze. Can’t go courting a barmaid with cheap liquor.”

Lifting the flask to his lips, he tossed back a mouthful, then grimaced, and coughed, “ _God_ , that tastes worse than I thought it would.” He looked to their daughter, offended. “We taught you better than this. You can pinpoint quality by _colour_.”

“I know better than to try and pilfer something from the bar,” she shot back. “He picked out the whiskey on his own!”

“I believe you,” Shanks said, still grimacing. “No daughter of mine would ever be caught drinking this swill.” He offered the flask to Makino for a sniff, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, that’s terrible.”

Emmy looked torn between stomping her foot and suffocating a scream, and it was taking a supreme amount of effort keeping his delight from ruining his attempt at a stern expression. Makino wasn’t even trying.

Then again, from the look of her, their collective good humour seemed to be doing the trick insofar as punishment was concerned, as Emmy huffed, “Can you just tell me if I’m grounded or not?”

Shanks shared a look with Makino, who smiled, and, “Not grounded,” he said. “But next time Luffy stops by, I’ll have him put you to cleaning the barnacles off the hull of his ship.” He made a _shooing_ gesture with the flask. “Now, off to bed with you, unless you want to personally witness the act that brought you into this world.”

She gaped. “Oh come on! And _ew_ , dad!”

“Hey, I’m giving you a warning. And the barnacles are good practice!” Shanks called after her as she made a strategic retreat towards her bedroom, his laughter echoing down the corridor, chasing at her heels. “Almost as good as climbing drain pipes!”

He looked back at Makino, raising his brows, along with the flask. “Want to watch me get tipsy off this and then try to get into my pants?”

She grinned, head tilted back against the doorframe to look up at him. “I don’t think you have to be tipsy for me to do that.”

“So confident,” he murmured, angling his head down towards her to seek her mouth, “I’ll have you eating those words in a minute.”

“Hmm, I’d rather you eat something else.”

“ _Please, for the love of god_!” came the shout from further down the corridor, followed by the sound of a door slamming.

Shanks just grinned, and wagged his brows, and when he dipped his head, drowned the taste of the whiskey with her laughter as they stumbled back across the threshold.

 

—

 

_“I can’t believe I’m asking this, but please come for a visit.”_

Garp eyed the Den Den Mushi warily. “Why?”

_“Because I’m not appropriately terrifying. I blame my charismatic air and winning personality. It’s a curse.”_

“It’s something, alright,” Garp muttered.

_“Please, Garp. I’m one more smarmy kid away from pulling the Emperor card. Not that I think it would make much of a difference—they’re all too young to even remember when Emperors were a thing. I’m obsolete!”_

Garp was smiling now. “Let me get this straight—you need me to come and scare off potential suitors?”

Red-Hair didn’t even hesitate. _“Yes.”_

“You do realise that I never once deterred _you_ , right?”

There was a pause. Then, _“That’s_ — _a different story. And I’ve repeatedly been told I lack good judgement. Here’s hoping these kids know better, although given what I’ve seen so far, I’m not holding my breath.”_ When Garp only raised a brow, Red-Hair added, _“You don’t even have to make an effort. Just grumble and glare a bit. Tell the story of how you broke Captain Roger’s wrist arm wrestling that one time. Punch a hole through the wall. That sort of thing.”_

Garp said nothing, and saw the Den Den Mushi drooping with a sigh, its expression uncharacteristically despondent, given who was on the other end. It was, among other things, curiously gratifying.

 _“They’re my girls, Garp,”_ Red-Hair said then.  _“They’re her girls.”_

Garp sighed. “You know I’m too old for this.”

_“So you’ll come?”_

He grunted. “I’ll bring the balloons.”

Red-Hair was quiet a moment. Then, _“...you know what? I’m not going to ask, I’m just going to take your word that it’ll do the trick.”_

 

—

 

In the end, he found a deterrent that was far more effective than Garp’s looming disapproval — and balloons, whatever he'd meant by that.

“Hey,” Sabo said, materialising at her shoulder where Emmy sat, engrossed in a card game. The two boys she’d been cheating out of all their money jumped to attention, having been too focused on fighting to gain her attention to make note of the arrival. “Can we join?” he asked, although he'd already taken a seat.

Emmy gaped, hands slack around her cards. “Wh—Sabo-nii!? What are you doing here?”

“What are we playing?” Luffy asked, plopping himself into a seat and dropping a plate on the table, laden so heavy with food the porcelain looked a single potato away from breaking to pieces.

Recognising him, one of the boys balked, nearly dropping his cards. “Y-you’re the—!”

“Ah?” Luffy glanced at him, mouth full of food and still chewing. And he said nothing else, but then he didn’t have to. Even without the straw hat, the Pirate King was easily recognisable.

Emmy was still gaping. “Luffy-n—”

“Oho?” trilled a new voice, before Nami appeared, sliding onto one of the empty chairs, eyes alight as she took in the cards scattered across the tabletop. “What are the stakes?”

Sabo reached across the table to gather the cards, plucking them out of the boys’ slack fingers before setting about shuffling them. “Life and death,” he chirped, and Nami made a cooing sound.

“Nice! My favourite kind.”

“Oh,” Zoro said, having come up behind her, and Emmy started. “Cards, huh? Oi, Sabo—deal me in.”

“I like high stakes,” Robin mused, following suit.

Emmy looked at them all, mouth working, but she couldn’t seem to muster a response, eyes darting around the table, which was rapidly filling up.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” Makino asked Shanks, observing the spectacle from the bar. Sabo looked to have commandeered the card game; he’d seated himself right between the two boys, one Straw-Hat on either side, and was loudly and cheerfully asking them questions (“So, what do you do? Baker’s apprentice, huh? Sounds like hard work. I feel you—I liberated a country yesterday”). The other one hadn’t taken his eyes off the three swords hanging at Zoro’s waist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shanks said. “I only briefly aired the idea of a visit.”

“That’s not the phone call I overheard,” Koala interjected, having taken a seat at the bar.

Brows raised and her hands on her hips, Makino stared him down, until he said, with a betrayed look at Koala, “I might have mentioned, offhand, that our door is currently being run down by horny, pubescent teenagers, but that wasn’t meant as an invitation for them to come and throw their weight around.” When her stare persisted, he added with a shrug, “Just implied. Vaguely.”

“It’s very sweet, but she doesn’t need watchdogs,” Makino told him, her eyes lit with amusement, although Shanks suspected it was on his behalf, this time.

“Yeah? Well, maybe _I'm_ the one who needs her to have them.”

She tilted her head, and with a murmur and a tug at the apron around his hips, “Now that’s a different matter altogether.”

She glanced back across the room. More of the Straw-Hats had joined the card game, the ones who couldn’t fit around the first table having pulled up a second, and the two boys looked ready to sink through their chairs. Emmy looked inclined to follow suit.

“You could have warned her,” Makino said.

“And miss out on this spectacular opportunity to mortify her?” Shanks asked. “Not likely. Soon she’ll be too old for me to embarrass, and that’ll just break my heart. I still haven't recovered from Ace.”

Her smile held agreement, but, “Oh, I don’t think she’ll ever let you forget this."

Shanks grinned. “Here’s hoping. Who knows—she might appreciate it one day.”

At her dubious look, he stuck his tongue out. “The last kid couldn’t even pull off a simple rendezvous. I’m just helping her thin the herd, and figure out what she wants. Case in point: someone who won’t shit themselves at the sight of her godfather.” He gestured to Luffy, who was staring down one of the boys while loudly eating a rib. “There are worse standards to have on this sea.”

Makino didn’t verbally agree, but allowed her smile to do it, observing the crowded table, and feeling the baby kicking under her palm.

“Do you think she’s very upset?” Shanks asked then, the furrow between his brows hinting at a rarely-demonstrated doubt, although even his staggering self-confidence hadn’t survived three children without wavering from time to time. Makino was glad to see it was still the case, their three children grown, and their fourth just around the corner.

Watching their daughter, she saw how Emmy's smile had loosened some of her mortification, at ease among the crew that had seen her grow up, and her earlier embarrassment seeming to have fled, replaced with the gently preening delight of a girl who’d always adored being at the centre of things.

“Not upset,” she murmured, as she leaned her head against his shoulder, palm pressed flat over her stomach as she listened to the conversation changing tracks, from teasing threats to their last adventure, to five seas and the vast world above and beneath them; to newly discovered islands in a kingdom that never stood still, until their daughter’s eyes were as wide as the sea she coveted so fiercely. The two boys seemed happily forgotten.

Makino smiled. “But I think she already knows what she wants.”

 

—

 

As is so often the case with love and intimacy, the course doesn’t always run smooth.

She found them in the storeroom, huddled among the liquor crates by the shelves in the back, her youngest curled in on herself, and Emmy looking like she was out for blood.

“What happened?” Makino asked, shutting the door behind her. Panic jumped in her chest when she didn’t receive an answer, even as Emmy glanced up, meeting her inquiring look with a wrought, furious expression. Her sister muffled a sob against her knees, the sound so soft it barely made an impression on the quiet, but Makino saw how it ripped through her shoulders.

Striding across the cramped room, she eased down on her knees with some difficulty. At eight months, it was a feat just moving about, but she made do, reaching to pry her daughter’s arms loose from where they’d wrapped around her knees.

Her attempt yielded resistance, and Makino felt her heart seize, but tried again, reaching for the small hands where they gripped her elbows, her voice gently beseeching.

“Ayame.”

Her next sob was louder, and when it left her the tight knot of her limbs came apart, before she crumbled into Makino’s arms. Her earlier resistance was gone, lost as she clung, as though to a lifeline, but then she’d always craved physical contact, their littlest one.

Makino held her as she cried, the embrace made a little awkward by the size of her stomach, but she ignored the slight discomfort of sitting on her legs, pulling her daughter as close as she’d come.

Emmy was being uncharacteristically silent, but at Makino’s questioning glance, spat, “It’s this fucker she’s been seeing.” She didn’t even look a twinge chagrined at the crude language, seeming to find it wholly justified, as she added, “The ship he works on docks here. She's met him a few times.”

Running her hand through her hair, too short to slip through her fingers, “I didn’t know you’d met someone,” Makino said.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” came the muffled reply from where she’d buried her head in her throat. “It’s hard enough with—with dad and everyone _watching_ , and I just—I didn't want—” She stopped, then, “And he was _nice_ ,” she said. “But then—”

She didn’t finish, and Makino looked to her sister, expression imploring.

Emmy pressed her lips together, a moment of indecision and a sister's loyalty holding her tongue, before she said, the words hard and unforgiving, “She didn’t want to go as far as he did.” Makino felt as Aya stiffened, but her sister continued, undaunted, “He pushed his hand up her skirt, and didn’t stop when she told him to, so she knocked him out with her haki.” The last was said with a twinge of pride, before the line of her mouth firmed further, her eyes flashing. “He found her in town earlier, and called her a—”

Her sister drew back at that, her protest hoarse, “Em, don’t—”

Makino held her gaze, unflinching, as Emmy said, without mercy, “He called her a tease. Said she only had herself to blame, for leading him on.”

Shame contorted her youngest’s features, rising up to scald her cheeks, before her shoulders hunched forward. Makino felt them clenching under her hands as she sobbed, her voice small, “I didn’t mean to!” She hiccuped, “I didn’t mean to be a—”

She didn’t finish, seeming unable to speak the words, but Makino felt how she shook, her whole body saying more than enough. And she remembered then, the sweet little baby who’d dozed against her breast while she’d worked; the toddler who’d cooed with delight, bouncing in the sling against her back as she accompanied a busy shift, and who’d trailed after her once she’d learned to walk, little hands fisted in her skirt. The girl who’d loved to perch on her father’s shoulders, and whose hands were never far from theirs. Like Shanks, she’d always been free with her touches, the most physically affectionate of all their children, and it was all too easy to forget with those easy offerings, how fiercely guarded the quiet heart that gave them.

And how quick it was to accept blame that wasn’t hers to carry. Makino recognised that feeling intimately.

“That’s it,” her sister said then, the declaration striking the silence like a slap. “I’m going to kick his ass.” She was about to rise to her feet when Makino touched her arm.

“No,” she said calmly, even as she felt the storm where it gathered within her, rising up from quiet depths. She tightened her grip, her hands pressed flat against her daughter’s back to still their own shaking.

“I’ll deal with him.”

 

—

 

The wharf greeted her with familiar bustle, a busy churning of movement in the early spell of the warm afternoon, ships unloading and merchants bringing their cargo into port as the sun slanted down from its perch towards the horizon, to dip its rays into the sea. The briny air coated the breeze with salt, teasing her hair loose from her kerchief as she made her way from the cobbled street onto the stonework docks, to weave a path between dockworkers and sailors, asserting her presence with a gentle but unapologetic insistence.

And it was nothing like Shanks', which had all the discretion of a tidal wave crashing into the shore, but her presence still compelled them to move out of the way, if without realising. Quietly persistent, like water it found its way around obstacles, prodding gently and smoothing sharp edges, the throng crowding the wharf parting to let her pass.

"Makino-san!"

The cheerful greeting was echoed by another, and then several more as they recognised her, deliberately moving out of the way now. She stepped with care, mindful of her burden and the slight waddle it gave her, but stubbornly determined not to let it diminish the purpose behind her approach.

More greetings sounded as she moved past, having singled out the merchant ship she'd sought; _Calypso_ , a slender schooner with her sails rolled up, creaking gently as her crew worked to load a new shipment into the cargo hold. It was her second visit to their island, and she'd docked yesterday; Makino knew, because Shanks always kept abreast of every ship that came into port, name and crew and purpose.

One of the workers who'd been overseeing the loading noticed her arrival, and stopped in his tracks. "Oh shit, it's—!"

A hush fell across the crew gathered, silencing the singing they'd been doing as she'd approached, the last note dying on the breeze, choked and startled, only to be swallowed up by the din of the crowd sweeping past them. And they'd stopped what they were doing, a muted chorus of surprised murmurs rippling across the group who'd been busy with the loading, but she caught a few hastily removing their hats, all of them standing at attention now, a quiet respect in the acknowledgement that Makino returned with a nod, before fixing her gaze on the young man at the head of the group.

But there was no recognition on his face as he took her in, eyeing her from head to toe, his gaze lingering just a moment longer on her unmistakably pregnant stomach. There was just confusion, and a spark of mild intrigue. And he couldn't have been with this crew long if he didn't know who she was, or whose island this was. The sea might have only one king now, but old allegiances remained, if only in sentiment, and there were few who sailed the New World who didn't know of the Emperor who'd settled here; the one whose jolly roger was the first sight to greet those who disembarked, a quiet warning that was further emphasised by the black flags whipping the breeze above the rooftops of the townhouses.

And of those who did know, there were none who'd mistake Makino for being anything else than what she was.

More people had slowed their pace to watch, curious, but the young man before her didn't seem to have caught on to why she was there. "You need something?"

The bold address had little courtesy in it, even with the disarming flash of an attractive smile. One of his fellow deck-hands flinched, and threw a half-panicked glance at Makino, which she gracefully ignored.

Her eyes swept across him once. A few years her daughter's senior, and handsome — clever brown eyes, and a charming smile that spelled _trouble_ with a laughing promise. It wasn't hard to see how a sprig of interest might have blossomed under that smile, and she remembered keenly being in the same predicament once, spellbound by similar charms, a little older but her heart no wiser for it.

But she was older now, and a long life had made her plenty wise, but most of all, it had left no room in her heart for compromise when it came to the wellbeing of her children.

And so, pregnant stomach teeming and her expression announcing her feelings without apology, Makino lifted her chin, and said, with a chilling calm that invoked the quiet belts of water that enclosed their little kingdom, and which were every seafarer's worst nightmare.

"We need to talk."

 

—

 

Shanks found her in the storeroom later, doing inventory.

“Why is there a terrified looking kid cleaning out our rain gutters?”

Makino looked up to find him observing her, his expression bemused. He had a dish-towel over his shoulder, and reached up to wipe his fingers on it as he leaned against the doorway, the evening sun pouring in from the common room sending crooked shadows slipping through his legs, to dance on the floorboards. “I asked him what he was doing and he almost fell off the ladder, and then apologised for taking so long.”

Makino dropped her eyes back to the ledger that lay open on the shelf before her. “Is he finished yet?”

Shanks blinked. “What am I missing here? Are we paying him? You know we have three kids who can do that for free, right? One of them is bound to do something that’ll warrant a few extra chores. And by ‘one of them’ I mean Emmy, because let’s be real, it’s not going to be Aya. And as he loves to remind us, Ace is ‘too old to be punished’. I know, right? I’ll remind him he said that if he ever has kids.”

She watched as he stepped through the doorway, into the quiet shadows where she’d hidden herself away. Coming to a stop beside her, he grinned a kiss to her temple, and rumbled, “Then again, you could always pull the ‘encumbered-and-pregnant mom’ card. You know they’re all weak for that. Our son in particular.”

“We’re not the ones paying,” Makino said mildly, flipping a page in the ledger.

He laughed, confused. “What does _that_ mean?”

She didn’t elaborate, but she caught the frown where it settled over his features, his teasing grin slipping as he asked her warily, “Why do you have that face?”

Resolutely, she kept her eyes on the ledger, on the list of inventory that eluded her focus, eyes blind to the things that had always given her mind comfort; the routines that had always been an escape, for a busy, strong-feeling heart. “What face?”

“ _That_ ,” Shanks said, one finger hooked under her chin to lift it, forcing her to meet his eyes. He was wearing an expression of mild amazement—and a slowly gathering worry, furrowing his brow and the grooves of the scars. The years had only deepened his handsome features, touching little but his generous laugh-lines and his hair, gleaming pewter now in the shade of the storeroom where he loomed above her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Makino said, despite already knowing that she could hide nothing from him, and tried to drop her gaze, but Shanks just gripped her chin harder, keeping it in place. Her heart skipped at the probing look he gave her, before familiar heat stirred low in her gut, hearing the way his voice had dropped, and feeling it in his whole presence; the natural air of command that his retirement from captaincy hadn't forgotten.

Combined with her wilful pregnancy hormones, it left her suddenly short of breath, distracted by the large, solid frame of his body against hers, and nearly enough to forget what she was feeling, before Shanks said, “That’s your angry face. Why are you angry?”

Ignoring the question, Makino made to reach for something on the shelf above, but he’d lifted it off before she could rise up on her toes, anticipating the small strain with the same overbearing protectiveness he always got when she was pregnant. When she pursed her mouth with a glare, Shanks just raised his brows, and handed her the bottle she’d sought. The liquor sloshed within, brown-gold in the fleeing light of the setting sun.

“We need to resupply our stock,” Shanks said, nodding to the bottle; the last on the shelf. “I’ve got the number for our contacts at the distillery behind the bar with the Den Den Mushi. I marked it down last week when I saw we were running low.”

She slammed the ledger shut, and saw how his brows jumped at the sudden and uncharacteristic show of aggression.

Willing her breathing to settle, Makino pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing her shoulders to unclench. “Pregnancy hormones. I’ve been a little off all day.”

When she looked at him, Shanks was watching her the way he did when he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him, but he seemed to take her word for it. At least for the most part. “Yeah, I figured,” he said, with a nod towards the bar. “You mixed up two orders earlier, and served Yasopp an empty plate and a dish-towel.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, and it was meant to lift her spirits, she knew, even as embarrassment flared in her chest, rising to settle in her cheeks. And as she rubbed at her eyes, the words were on the tip of her tongue— _this pregnancy will be the death of me,_ but shock was quick to follow, and she’d swallowed the comment back down before the last syllable could echo through her mind, shame scalding her at her own carelessness, however mild the remark might be on someone else’s lips. She’d never say that to him, even in jest. Not with what they'd been through.

She breathed through her nose, and touched her hand to her belly. The baby kicked, and her shoulders eased somewhat, even as she could still feel the imprint of Aya's little body in her arms; the sobs that had shaken her.

His hand touched her cheek, warm and rough where it cradled her jaw. “You okay?” Shanks asked, his voice dropped a notch, a low murmur that sank into her stomach.

She knew her smile wasn’t convincing, but she wasn’t lying when she told him, “I’m a little tired is all.”

He took the ledger from the shelf, and when she made to protest, kissed her brow. “Go,” he said. “I’ll finish up.” She felt his grin where it curved, the scratch of his beard over her skin as he murmured into her ear, “I’ll even draw a filthy doodle for you to find.”

Despite herself, Makino felt as a tired laugh bubbled out of her. “Nothing too graphic.” Rising up on her toes to kiss him, she allowed the rest of her anger to bleed out of her shoulders, feeling how he responded, a boyish eagerness as he ducked his head to deepen it, his tongue slipping past hers as he pushed her body back against the shelves. Another thing the years hadn't touched.

He was grinning when she drew back, a last, tender peck to his lips before she sank back on her heels, although Shanks hadn't moved away, his body still caging hers to the shelves, and resting her brow to his chest, Makino allowed herself a moment to feel the familiar relief that came with being small next to him, even with her heavily pregnant stomach between them. It always made her feel safe, the protective enclosure of his large frame seeming to shield her from everything outside it.

"My wife," he murmured, with a kiss to the top of her head, and her breath shuddered out at the tender endearment, effortless even after so many years with him.

It was just the two of them in the storeroom, their children elsewhere, and any other time she might have grabbed the opportunity to relieve some tension, and to let him help her forget; a moment claimed for themselves to adore each other greedily, but the day had left her tired from her own feelings, and with too much on her mind to forget, even with her husband's familiar, distracting attentions.

She squeezed his arm, an apology and a quiet request in the touch, and wondered if he could tell how terribly her fingers shook.

He didn't stop her as she made to extract herself, and from that fact alone, she doubted it had slipped him by, even if he didn't know the reason for her distraction. And even if she couldn't hope to hide her feelings from him, she'd always loved that he knew her so well, and what she needed.

“Hey, what do you want me to do about the kid out front?” Shanks called after her, before she’d cleared the doorway.

Makino paused. And in the twenty years they’d been married, there’d never been any secrets between them, but the words sat glued to the roof of her mouth, halted by the memory of their daughter’s voice, breaking over the plea.

_Please don’t tell dad._

She breathed through her nose, and didn’t look at him as she left, knowing that if she did, he’d know—would see her smile as it shattered, and would recognise the anger that still sat, just under the surface of her calm.

“You can tell him to get started on the windows when he’s done.”

 

—

 

It didn’t take him long to put the pieces together.

He found her in the garden under the apple trees, sitting on the old swing they’d put up years ago, the gentle movements having shaken loose some of the flowers, white as snow where they lay strewn across the grass. A single blossom had caught in her hair, but she didn’t seem to have noticed.

“You’re not as bad a liar as your mother,” Shanks said, as he came to a stop before her. “Or your brother. But I know your face pretty well.” He tilted his head, smiling. “Given that I had some part in making it. And I’m not saying that to embarrass you. This time, at least.”

She didn’t look at him, fiddling with a loose thread in her skirt, her head bent, as though she couldn’t bear to lift it.

“Aya,” Shanks said, quietly.

She raised her eyes, although they didn’t meet his at once, nervously skirting the focus of his gaze before they finally lifted the last of the way, to settle there.

Her sister had told him enough, but Shanks still searched her face for the answers he wasn’t sure he even wanted. And it had always been hard for him to decide which of them she looked like the most. The hair was his, and her eyes, grey sprouting into summer-green, but the pale freckles and the elfin features belonged to Makino, although the arrangement was a little different—her brow was higher, and her cheekbones; the curve of her chin was rounder, and her cheeks dimpled when she smiled.

Shanks found a lot of his mother in that face, which was never without expression. And he saw the hurt in her eyes now; saw the shame that coloured her cheeks, and the trembling knit of her brows.

She put up a show of bravery for another beat, before her face crumbled, her lower lip wobbling over a broken sob, and when she slid off the swing to reach for him, he was already there to catch her.

His arm came around her back, pulling her close and caging the next sob that left her against his chest. Shanks pressed his palm to her spine, feeling how it shook. His hand could still span the width of her back.

She was so small. It still struck him sometimes, grown as she was. Her sister wasn’t much bigger, but her personality claimed more space than she did. Their youngest had always been quiet, no demands made by her size or her self, but he felt it now; the slender shoulders, and the small hands fisted in his shirt.

He had to forcibly quell the urge to hunt down the kid who’d touched her, the feeling so visceral he wasn’t prepared for it, the acute and uncompromising fury that made him feel suddenly capable of terrible things.

“Who told you?” came her voice then, the words muffled by his shirt.

Shanks tucked his nose into her hair. “Em caved. Then again, she looked like she was itching to pick a fight. And your mom’s been honest-to-god  _prowling_. Or she would be if she wasn’t so pregnant. It was more of an adorably aggressive waddle, but it wasn’t hard to tell something was up.”

His attempt at lighting the mood didn’t have the effect he’d hoped for, but then he wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful, given the circumstances.

Aya was quiet. Then, the words stuttering on her tongue, “How—how _much_ did she tell you?”

He tightened his arm around her, and knew she could tell from that alone, but, “Enough,” Shanks said simply. “You want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. She hadn’t lifted it from where she’d buried her nose in his shirt. “Not really. Can I just—” She swallowed, and hugged him closer. “Can you just hug me for a bit?”

His heart constricted, but, “Yeah,” Shanks said, closing his arm around her further. “I can do that.”

They didn’t speak for a spell, standing there under the apple trees. The sun had ducked behind the rise, bathing their valley in bluish shades, but the lights from the house kept the dark at bay; the lantern hanging over the back porch swinging softly in the breeze. Somewhere inside, Emmy was talking loudly.

Watching the empty swing where it swayed, he remembered suddenly a long-ago time; the way she’d giggle and clutch the ropes, shrieking with half-terrified laughter as he pushed her—never too high, or too fast; not like her sister, who’d touch the sky if she could.

 _You know,_ he’d told Makino with a sigh, watching them playing. They’d been six and seven; it seemed half a lifetime ago, now. _Emmy doesn’t ask me to push her anymore. Says she can do it on her own. That she wants to. Something about rowing her own boat, and that the Pirate King probably didn't need anyone to push him on the swing. Who did she learn this from?_ _Independent little thing, I swear. Broke my heart. Joke's on her, though—Luffy probably would have asked me to push him when he was seven._

He’d smiled then, observing their youngest, testing the strength of the ropes, ever practical and prepared.  _Aya asks,_ he'd said. _Every time._ He’d paused, before asking, quietly, _Do you think she does it for my sake?_

Even that young, it would have been perfectly in line with her personality, having always been uncannily aware of those around her, their needs and their feelings. She was the girl who made sure to sit on each of her uncle's knees, in rotation, so no one would feel left out; who asked Yasopp for stories she'd already heard a hundred times, and who indulged her sister's need to be the decision-maker. But the alternative had also been wholly possible—the girl who adored being adored, and who thrived under the attention of a doting father.

He remembered how Makino had looked at him; the smile that knew him all too well, softened with the same kindness that he found in their youngest’s eyes as she’d asked him—

_Does it matter which it is?_

He thought of her quiet anger in the storeroom earlier, and the terrified boy who’d looked like he’d expected Shanks to skin him alive. He wondered now if he hadn’t been right to fear that.

Drawing back, he tipped her chin to search her eyes, still red-rimmed, and fat tears caught in her lashes. “You okay?”

The question implied a lot more than just the state of her emotional health, and she knew it, from the way her expression softened. “I’m fine. He didn’t—” She drew a breath, then repeated, firmer this time, “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t lying. If she had been, Shanks didn’t think he would still be standing there.

And he could have pushed, but, “Good,” he said instead, still searching her face, finding the stubborn traces of embarrassment in the trembling line of her mouth, and the redness colouring the tops of her cheeks, bright under her freckles.

“In all seriousness, though,” he said, his thumb catching the tears she blinked from her eyes, to wipe them away. “Do you want me to rough him up? I might be a barkeep now, but there's a reason people steer clear of this island. I've still got some tricks up my sleeve." He winked. "Just the one sleeve, mind you.”

She laughed; a startled half-sob. “Uncle Lucky already offered,” she said, scrubbing a hand across her eyes. “And anyway, I think whatever mom told him did the trick. He apologised for—for what he did. And what he said.”

His smile was brittle, although not without satisfaction, and fondness softened the sharp edges from cutting. “She could compel the sea to cower, your mother.” He paused, then added wryly, “And our rain gutters are the cleanest they’ve ever been.”

He heard as her sob dragged up another laugh, softer this time, but it did the trick, sparking a wavering smile, and when she hugged him this time her shoulders weren’t shaking.

“I don’t think he’ll be coming by the bar again,” Shanks said then.

He felt as she stiffened. When she asked, her question was a careful murmur. “Do they all know?”

His silence was answer enough, but before she could protest, “I told them to leave it be, but if that kid knows what’s good for him, he’ll give the place a wide berth.” His mouth curled upwards, remembering having had to raise his voice to shut down the near-mutiny. His crew wasn’t an aggressive bunch, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have it in them to be, and without apology. “You can’t order pirates around.”

Pulling back to look at him, the entirely too knowing expression was all her mother’s. “ _You_ can.”

“I’ve been retired for twenty years,” Shanks reminded her pertly, poking her nose. “I’m not a captain anymore.”

“No one actually believes that. They just think you stopped here and never left.”

“Yeah?” he mused. “Maybe you have a point.” He touched her hair, his palm curved over her crown. “Still, they promised they’d play nice. As nice as pirates will play, at least.”

She’d dropped her eyes again, but he saw her nod. “I just don’t want any more trouble.”

He frowned, watching the way she kept her gaze averted. “You know this isn’t your fault,” Shanks told her. It was in no way meant to be a question, even as he heard the note of disbelief that crept into his tone, realising that might well be the case.

Aya worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Mom said that, too.”

“It’s the truth,” Shanks said, and didn’t miss the fact that she very deliberately hadn’t answered him. Nudging her chin up, he allowed her to see the full weight of his anger now. “You’re not responsible. You owe him _nothing_.”

She didn’t respond at once, and he meant to repeat himself when she confessed, quietly, “I didn’t think it would be like that.”

His anger softened, that small voice smoothing all the hard edges, and he sighed, running his fingers through her hair. “It shouldn’t be,” he said. Then, firmer this time, “Remember that. You should never do anything you don’t want to do, no matter how pressured you feel.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide. And in that moment Shanks saw her mother, thirty years younger and her heart bared, telling him she couldn’t change who she was.

A nod then, and despite the lingering reluctance on her face there was a note of stubbornness in her voice now as she said, “I’ll remember.”

It wasn't said without assurance, even if it was a gentler kind than her sister would have boasted. Because while their eldest daughter was a rogue current, the eddies of a wild and swiftly changing temper barely leaving room to catch your breath before it dragged you under, their youngest was no less headstrong, even with the vast and quiet depths of her heart.

She'd fallen quiet, considering the apple blossoms on the grass. It was getting darker, and he was about to suggest they go inside, when, “Dad?” came the query, as she looked up to seek his eyes. “Thank you.”

Smile easing a bit, Shanks cocked his head. “For what? And please don’t say my spectacularly poor attempt at making you feel better, because even I know you’d be doing it out of pity. I’m not at the top of my game today.”

Aya just smiled. “For not overreacting,” she said. “But also for being here.” She shrugged, her smile a small, rueful thing. “I’m sorry I told mom not to tell you. I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

His smile dropped, and he gripped her chin, smoothing his thumb along her cheek. “Hey,” he said. “I’d never be that. Perpetually distressed by the fact that you’re no longer in diapers, maybe, but _never_ disappointed."

Her smile trembled, but it stayed, and Shanks released her chin to touch her nose. “You used to come running to me first thing, but I realise now that you’re getting a bit old for that.” He feigned a lamenting sigh. “It’s been a few years since you hid behind my legs,” he told her, seeking the well-worn memory; the little hands gripping the leg of his pants, wary of new visitors to their bar, and of people she didn’t know. “I have to admit, I miss it a little, but that’s my burden to bear. You’re growing up, and you shouldn’t let me make you feel like you can’t.”

“Just because I’m growing up doesn’t mean I don’t feel like hiding behind you sometimes,” she pointed out.

He made a doubtful noise. “I hope you’re not just saying that for my sake.”

Aya just shrugged. She wasn’t crying anymore. “Does it matter which it is?”

He couldn’t have helped his smile if he’d wanted to. “No,” Shanks said, his laughter soft. “Never has.” Then, “Come on,” he told her, running his fingers through her short hair, red like his had been once, plucking the stray apple blossom from it. “Your mom is passive aggressively cooking something. It smells like your favourite. I didn’t dare go into the kitchen earlier, so I can only guess. I might be wrong, and she’s actually cooking that kid’s last meal.”

She blurted a laugh. “She’s scary when she’s protective.”

Shanks grinned as they made towards the house, pride curling in his chest, loosening the last remnants of his anger as he bent to kiss the crown of her head, his laughter a sigh.

“You have no idea.”

 

—

 

“So,” Shanks said, stepping through the doorway of their bedroom later, nightfall having long since chased away the last of the light, save the warm glow of the lamp burning in their window. “Our daughter is asleep, and I’ve just talked myself down from cheerful and violent murder. For the third time today.”

Makino was seated on the bed, running a brush through her hair, still damp from her bath. She didn’t pause in her ministrations as she looked up to meet his gaze. “Only just?”

Shanks pushed away from the door. “I’m still on the fence, but I promised her I wouldn’t do anything. Em, however, made no such promise.” Coming to take a seat beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight, he allowed his sigh to loosen his shoulders as he settled into the quiet spell of her presence, even as he felt the ever-so-slight tension edging it.

He looked at her, still running the brush through her hair where it draped over her shoulder, to pool in her lap. He followed the silver veins slipping in and out of the dark river with the thread of her fingers, following the meticulous movements of the brush. “You could have told me.”

Makino tugged loose a snarl, but didn’t pause what she was doing. “She asked me not to. She was embarrassed enough already, and I don’t blame her. There are some things you’d rather not have your father knowing about.” She glanced up, catching his gaze, and he saw the apology in her eyes, dark where they ate up the lamplight. “And I knew you’d find out. She’s not good at hiding her feelings.”

Shanks snorted. “No,” he agreed. “Only a little bit better than _you_ , but that’s not saying much.”

They lapsed into silence. Shanks listened to the sounds of their home; Emmy, talking loudly in the kitchen below, and Ace responding, although not in the same volume.

“He finished the rain gutters,” he said then, glancing towards her, a silent question in the slight raise of his brows.

Makino didn’t answer at first. There was a bit more force behind the next tug of the brush. “I’m sending him to Ben tomorrow,” she said then. “He needed an extra set of hands on the farm.” She ran the brush through her hair again; it slipped smoothly through the strands, no tangles left, but she didn’t stop. “He’ll be overseeing the work.”

Shanks made a noise of surprise. “That _is_ a punishment. Not even Garp looms like Ben does.”

She sighed then, her shoulders sinking. The brush stilled. “I was so angry I thought I was going to throw up."

Meeting his eyes this time, she shook her head. “I know she’s growing up, that she’s not a little girl anymore, but she’s—she’s always been _our_ littlest. And he—” She clenched her fingers around the brush. Her next breath was forced through her nose, before she blurted, “I was so angry I could have pushed him off the docks.”

His smile was quick, startled by the confession, before it fell, remembering their daughter, and that broken murmur.  _I didn't think it would be like that._

He didn't say anything at once, although he didn’t make a point of hiding the fist that lay, clenched in his lap. It took effort loosening his fingers from the grip, and then, “I think I could have killed him."

The calm observation was offered to the quiet—her quiet. Makino didn’t even flinch. “It’s a weird feeling,” Shanks admitted, turning his hand over, tracing the familiar map of old scars and callouses, left by his two lives, blending together until he could no longer tell what had caused them—swordsmanship or broken glass; ship’s rope or hauling liquor crates to stack in the storeroom. “I’ve always believed in trying to solve conflicts without resorting to violence, at least unless absolutely necessary, but this kid...the thought of his hands on her…” He looked at her. “I could have killed him.”

Makino considered her hairbrush, rubbing her thumb along the grooves in the back, the tossing waves shaped from mother-of-pearl, set in silver. A gift as old as their marriage. “I’ve come to realise something,” she said then, as he reached out to comb his fingers through her hair where it draped over her shoulder. “Maybe it’s my own fault for forgetting.”

“What?” Shanks asked, toying with her hair, slipping like water through his fingers.

Makino looked at him. “When we first met,” she began. It sounded like she was choosing her words—or maybe just reminiscing, from the small smile that curved her mouth. “When you, ah—made it clear you were interested.”

His brows quirked. “When I repeatedly shoved my foot in my mouth, you mean?”

She nudged him with the brush, but her smile was too soft for teasing. “You let me set the pace,” she said. “You didn’t let me feel like I owed you anything. You waited until I was ready, and you let me be infuriatingly indecisive.”

“Not _infuriatingly_ ,” Shanks slipped in, smiling at the memory. “And you’re painting me in a very good light. I never made a secret of the fact that I wasn’t constantly thinking about doing a whole host of entirely lewd things to you. Seriously. It was more than a little distracting. I’m surprised I got anything done back then, beside occasionally eating and thinking about you.” He grinned, and ducking his head to nip a kiss along her neck, rumbled, “And thinking about eating _you_.”

He’d meant for it to be teasing, but the laugh that pulled from her was curiously tender. “Lewd man,” Makino said, and when he reached to kiss her this time she tilted her head to meet him, tucking her hand to his cheek. “Still," she murmured, brushing her thumb along his jaw, through his beard. "You didn’t make me feel like I was obligated to reciprocate. I don’t know if I ever told you how much I appreciated that.”

Reaching for her hand, he kissed her knuckles, his look softening as he watched her, rooting through old memories—her smile edging the rim of a glass as she tossed it back, and her hair slipping free of her kerchief, his heart in his throat. A freezing bathroom, and her bare legs wrapped in his cloak. Broken glass across dark, polished floorboards, and the way she'd looked beneath him, her touches hesitant but her expression claiming.

“Wasn’t hard to wait.” His grin stretched, full of old mischief as he nipped at her fingers. “Even if other things were hard. Frequently. And cheerfully.”

This time, his stubborn attempt at levity made her laugh, and she loosened her fingers from his to pinch his nose, before letting her hand drop to her stomach, smoothing it over the curve, the silk of her dressing gown damp from her hair. “My first experience with intimacy was a good one," Makino said. "Today was a reminder that it’s not the case for everyone.” She pressed her lips together. “I shouldn’t have forgotten. Not with our children.”

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You can’t prepare for every outcome. For what it’s worth, she’s a ridiculously sensible kid. She knows what she wants—and what she doesn’t.” His eyes creased with a smile. “She’s a lot like you.”

Makino shook her head. “She is uniquely herself,” she said. “But you’re right, she knows what she wants. Not everyone will respect her choices, but...I’m glad that she’s brave enough to make them.”

“Our lionhearted girl,” Shanks agreed, smile warming over the old endearment. “She knocked him unconscious, did Emmy tell you?”

Makino laughed. “She did.”

“I’m so proud,” he said, with a sigh. “I’m still fucking _pissed_ , but knowing that the little shit has to deal with Ben is helping. Somewhat. I might change my mind tomorrow. At the very least, I’m stopping by the farm. I want to watch him sweat. I might even pull out the Emperor card for this one—what?”

Makino was smiling up at him, something almost achingly fond in her expression. “Nothing,” she said. “I love you. You’re a good father.”

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes twinkling, and he had a thought that she knew what he’d say, even before he did, invoking a long-ago memory, of the first time her stomach had rounded under his palm, and he’d been at a loss of what to do with the little life beneath. “Not an amazing one?”

She gave him a shove, and he laughed, but when he rested his head on her shoulder she shifted to accommodate him, allowing him to give her some of his weight.

He felt her sigh; the way it eased out of her shoulders. “It’s hard, coming to terms with it,” she said, smoothing her hand over her belly, the damp silk catching in her callouses. “That we can’t protect them from everything. That we shouldn’t try to.”

Shanks hummed. “The many joys of parenthood. And we have three singular kids, who all sail their own sea. There’s no setting their course for them.” He glanced at her stomach, before skimming his fingertips over the curve, to rest his palm over it. There was little of the same wariness he’d exhibited during her last two pregnancies. “And I have a feeling it won’t be any different for this one.”

Makino tucked her hand over his knuckles, pressing down. Beneath their hands, their baby kicked, as though in agreement.

“God, we’re going to be the oldest parents,” Shanks sighed a laugh, feeling the kicks. “This one isn’t even born yet, and I feel like I’ve already fought my battles. I’ll be _ancient_ once they start thinking about suitors. And my vintage ages well, as you know—I will _not_ look as scary as Garp. Tragic as that is to admit.”

From the kitchen below rose Emmy’s voice then, unapologetically loud— _“If I so much as catch him looking in her direction, I’ll punch his lights out. We’ll see how smug that smile is when he has no teeth.”_

They shared a look. “Well,” Makino said with a tender laugh, as they listened to the sounds of their home—to Ace’s agreement, and suggestion of assistance. “We might not have to fight any battles.” She smiled, eyes on her stomach but her gaze months away.

“There are others who’d happily do the honours.”

 

—

 

There were _some_ perks to be had, observing their children’s stumbling and often-fraught ventures into romance.

“Mom, Dad,” Ace said, beaming as he swept his hand to indicate his guest, having stepped through the doorway of their bar a moment earlier. “This is Sparrow.”

The girl inclined her head in greeting, her long hair falling over her shoulder, the black spill of an inkwell against her fair skin. The two swords at her waist caught the light; silver inlaid in each hilt, and a hawk’s wings spanning the cross-guards, swept outwards as though in flight.

She was pretty — was beautiful, although it was a sharp kind of beauty, found in the severe line of her nose, and the bright golden eyes where they sat, large and near-luminous beneath a high, regal brow. Makino had only ever seen pictures; the few her father had been inclined to share.

“I was wrong,” Shanks said, with so much delight it left his voice breathless, as he turned to look at her, grinning.

“This isn’t what’ll kill _me._ ”

 


End file.
